


Kiss the Hell out of me

by liliumweiss



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Enchanted Forest (Once Upon a Time), F/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-15 00:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liliumweiss/pseuds/liliumweiss
Summary: Princess Emma had been warned not to seek the Devil of the seas, the pirate captain whose thirst for revenge left only one man alive after every attack so he would tell the tale of the demon that had taken his brothers’ lives. But desperate times call for desperate measures: she has a kingdom to save, and the man who carries himself as a horned king is her only hope.Too bad that Killian Jones is not a man anymore.





	Kiss the Hell out of me

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello hello! It is time for me to post my written contribution to @csrolereversal and @cshalloweek and phew, I could’ve never done without the bloody brilliant, amazing @cocohook38 and her wonderful sketches! No, really, she’s just been amazing with everything and I admit, without her guidelines and plot points I would’ve been utterly lost! I hope I made her drawings and every tiny detail justice! 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this, even if I have to warn you: the first part is 100% whump and there’s only Killian, so if that’s not your cup of tea, feel free to skip to part 2... when it’ll be posted! My friends, my friends don’t ask me when that’ll happen tho.

«_I’m not the only demon here._»

Killian woke with a roar, pain shooting up his left arm, unfurling deep inside him and trapping what little was left of his heart like a flaming whip, tightening its grip until only dust was left.

Incapable of not doing so, he looked down at his only hand, rings catching the pale moonlight in the dark cabin. The sensation of dust slipping through his fingers persisted, not even rubbing his hand over the blankets bunched at his waist made it disappear. It was as if it’d penetrated under his skin, impossible to get rid of no matter how hard he tried.

Another night, another nightmare.

Drinking himself to stupor wasn’t helping him the way it had many times when he’d drowned his sorrows after Liam’s death. The pain wasn’t comparable to what he’d felt when he’d seen his brother die before his eyes twice, but it was pain still.

Night after night, the dream changed for the worse. At first, it had been the scene he’d witnessed, the demon crushing Milah’s heart as he was tied to the mast, unable to move. Every night that passed brought a new particular into the dream, Rumplestiltskin’s face slowly morphing into Killian’s.

The night he realized the monster was no one but him, Killian had woken up with the frantic need to cut his hand off, the same one that had crushed Milah’s heart, only to realize it was the only one he was left. That day, rum had been his only companion, sharp shards of the mirror scattered on the floor and blood trickling down his fingers, smearing the rings red.

Whatever he’d hoped to accomplish shattered the moment he closed his eyes and the Jolly’s deck appeared behind his eyelids.

It took only a week before he started to feel the demon’s presence behind him as he sneered over his shoulder, blaming him for Milah’s death, her lifeless eyes gazing up at him, void.

«_What punishment fits a killer, I wonder_.»

Staying awake wasn’t a possibility: when exhaustion ultimately took a hold on Killian, the nightmare seemed impossibly more real than ever.

He couldn’t go on like this: sooner or later, he would go mad. No, he already _had_.

A loud knock at the door made Killian snap his head in the direction of the intruder, fist clenching so tightly the fingernails left crescent moons imprints in their wake.

«Captain?» came Smee’s uncertain voice, at which Killian frowned. Had he been heard? It wasn’t the first time either him or one of the men woke screaming, the same had happened in the Navy as well.

Clearing his voice, Killian allowed his first mate inside. «What is it that is bothering you so much you can’t leave me alone, Smee?» he snarled, standing from the bed, stark naked.

The stocky man wrung his woollen bright red hat with his hand, twisting it like a rag drenched with water. «Uh, Captain, we, uh, the whole crew is worried...»

Killian grunted in response as he put his leather pants on. Lacing them, he frowned. They seemed a tad too… _tight_.

_Impossible_, he thought, wondering if his excessive abuse of rum could’ve made him fatter even though he hardly touched food these days and strained himself with work above and under deck. Still, and thankfully, there was no need to visit a seamstress.

_Not yet_, his traitor mind supplied.

A growl left his throat.

«And why would the lot of you be worried?» Killian asked through clenched teeth. Though sometimes it could feel like he wasn’t listening, he always was, sometimes even thinking about a solution to the problem his men were presenting him.

«Ah, well, it seems to us you ain’t your older self anymore,» Smee gulped as Killian passed by him, too close for his own sanity. The man squirmed in terror, but held on to what little courage he had. «N-not that grieving isn’t in your right, it is, we’re just… worried. You wake up screaming and...» The first mate gulped again, looking everywhere but Killian. «And the ship seems to shake.»

It was barely a whisper, but Killian heard it anyway.

At first, he was too stunned, then burst out laughing. It was a humourless laugh, a bitter and derisory one.

«You have a very vivid fantasy, Mister Smee,» Killian chuckled, hands dipping into the basin next to the full-length mirror, his back to it as his eyes zeroed on Smee.

«B-b-but Captain, it’s not a-»

«I _said_,» Killian said slowly, eyes narrowing menacingly, «you have a very vivid fantasy, Mister Smee. It appears working too long under the sun is making you perceive things. Perhaps it’s you the men should be worried about.»

In front of his Captain’s clear fury, Smee was wise enough not to anger him even more, opting to bow his head and nod in agreement. «Aye, Captain. As you say, Captain.»

Humming curtly, Killian jerked his head towards the door. «Go back above deck.» Seeing the man was still rooted to the spot, Killian barked: «_Out_!»

The door trembled as Smee closed it in a hurry to get away from there, whispering an “_aye, Captain_” under his breath.

Killian shook his head, breathing in deeply to calm himself. His problems were his own, always had been, always will be. That was why he shut the tiny voice in his heart that was whispering to him how nice it was when someone cared about you.

_It sure is not when all those who do end up dead_.

Shaking his head, Killian brought a handful of water to his face, the coldness of it seeping through the dark clouds left by his nightmare. They never dissipated completely, always swirling inside his mind, clouding his judgment.

He turned around, looking straight into the haunted eyes of his reflection, _his own_ eyes, pale blue irises that’d lost that spark of life he’d taken so long to find again after Liam’s death. Was it life, though? Or it’d just been all a pretence?

A loud high-pitched laugh filled his ears all of a sudden, mocking.

Rumplestiltskin sneered from behind him, yellow teeth bared as he grinned evilly.

Killian whirled around, founding nothing but void, no demon in sight. Blinking, Killian regained his composure slowly. He needed to rest, _really_ rest, no alcohol-induced sleep, no nightmares, just dreamless bliss.

Perhaps he could ask some enchantress for a talisman of sorts, a potion, whatever would help him overcome those nightmares. As much as he despised magic with his entire being, Killian knew it was useless fight it with common weapons. He had to find a way before he lost himself more than he already was.

A defeated sigh left his lips, shoulders hunched as he turned around. He needed to get out of his cabin, staying holed up would bring him no good. Isolation was a cruel method of torture, one Silver took pleasure in inflicting to his slaves, Killian in particular. All those times Killian had imagined his brother saving him only for him to accuse Liam of being nothing but a trick of his mind when the time he was finally relieved from the punishment.

Perhaps that was what was happening, the nightmares worsening, the voices and visions only he could hear and see. Perhaps-

Killian gasped, taking a few steps back until he hit the wooden wall at the other end of the cabin, the impact so forceful it would’ve elicited a grunt from him hadn’t he been too shocked by what he saw in the mirror.

Blinking one, two, three times demonstrated useless, it wasn’t a vision, it wasn’t a trick of his mind, no, it was something worse he couldn’t quite understand.

No matter how much he wanted to tear his eyes away from the mirror, from what was happening to him, he just couldn’t.

His entire figure was larger and taller, somehow, his already slightly tanned skin fruit of hours spent under the sun was even more so even if he hadn’t left his cabin for the past few days. His hair appeared longer, just like his beard, longer than if he’d not shaved for a week or had an haircut in a month. He looked wild, untamed, characteristics he could already see in himself before and now enhanced by dark magic: there was no other way he’d changed so drastically overnight thanks to mother nature.

The reflection in the mirror became slightly blurry. Killian braced himself for more changes, terror shooting through him before he realized _he_ was then one trembling.

Never once, not even during the darkest times of his childhood that still haunted him, Killian had felt such raw fear, not even to what he'd experienced once he'd lost his brother, the prospect of living a life without Liam agonizing. But he'd changed, then, he'd grown into the pirate he was today. This, however, this was different, inexplicable and unknown.

«_And it's all your fault, dearie._»

At those words, didn't matter whether a trick or truly spoken aloud, fear left space to rage.

He started to shake even more, fist clenching tightly at his side. He was ready to punch his reflection, to break another mirror, no matter if he brought another seven years of bad luck upon himself: it didn't really matter when all his life had known more disgrace than it had moments of happiness.

Pain shot up his forearm, his flesh itching beneath the skin, the fastidious sensation one he desired he still had his hand to take care of. He clenched his teeth at the painful reminder that he had no left hand anymore, that everything he could do before was nearly impossible to do now, not even if he’d chosen a hook instead a wooden hand.

But Killian Jones was a resourceful man, he hadn’t made it to where he was, hadn’t become a feared pirate Captain with just a good dose of luck or his good looks: none of that had mattered when he was a boy, but his intelligence had, saving him more than once.

The icy water of the basin he threw over his skin alleviated the growing burning sensation just for a few seconds, and not even wrapping a towel around his stump to rub it over the tattoo helped to ease the ache.

Killian gritted his teeth, almost on the verge of tears, tears of both pain and frustration he was fighting with all his being not to spill.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Killian disposed of the rag, tossing it next to the basin, eyes closed in a silent prayer to the gods above.

When he opened his eyes, the pain still humming in delight under his skin, Killian stared down at his tattoo, at Milah's heart pierced by the Dark One's dagger, red blending into the darkest black where his own cutlass cut through it.

Horror marred his features, his stomach lurching at the disgusting sight.

_What is happening to me?_

The more he stared, the more sick he felt, doubts creeping in. The tattoo wasn't lying: he'd brought Milah's demise upon her; he might not have crushed her heart himself, but he'd allowed her to abandon her son, to follow him, and that had marked her fate.

A wave of nausea rolled through him, and he made it to the chamber pot a moment before losing what little he had in his stomach from the day before.

_I killed her, I'm just like that demon_.

Silent tears were now streaming freely down his cheeks. It’d been years since he’d cried, not even as his wounds were being stitched or his stump cauterized. The last time… the last time he’d cried was when Liam had died.

His knees hit the wooden planks with a dull thump and he bent forward, his forehead almost touching the floor as sobs raked through his body, shaking him to the point he was sure the whole crew would notice.

_You are a monster, Killian Jones_, a voice, _his own_ voice, teased him with a sinister laugh. _First, it was your darling mother, the beautiful Alice, who would’ve never caught the fever that killed her hadn’t you decided to learn how to swim only to have a storm surprise you. She had to pry the waves’ claws from you and, in doing so, letting death wrap its icy fingers around her. Then your brother, of course, who wouldn’t have died if you had just kept your mouth shut, your dear Liam wouldn’t have had to prove himself to you. And now Milah, the woman who left her own _son_ so she could be with you. But oh, you had to tempt the Dark One himself, you had to play the devil’s game. Guess what, lost boy? You lost: you lost another person you loved, you lost a piece of yourself, and you’re even losing your mind. You are a disease, Killian Jones, killing everyone you love._

«No!» Killian roared in despair, uncaring of whoever could hear him, not when the voice in his head was so loud it seemed to echo off the walls. His head hurt as if it was wrapped in a ring of fire, the boiling blood inside his veins pumping painfully against his temples. Between the sobs, blinded by the tears, Killian pressed the heel of his hand against his head in a futile attempt of easing the pain. If anything, it hurt even more, so much that the more he applied pressure there, the more pain he felt.

_No more_, he pleaded silently, wanting, _needing_ the torture to stop. Just like every other time he’d dared asking the gods for something, for his mother to heal or for Liam not to die, his prayer fell on deaf ears.

The sound of his own fist hitting the floor right next to where he was resting his head startled him, the jerking movement that brought him to sit on his haunches spread the pain to his neck and down, spiralling down his spine, knocking his breath out with the force of a cannonball shot from a close distance.

He stifled a whimper, teeth worrying through the abused skin of his lower lip until he could taste salt and copper on his tongue. But pain couldn’t fight pain, especially not when magic was involved.

Through his haze, Killian’s tired eyes fell on the bottle of rum sitting on his desk quietly calling his name, offering him absolute oblivion and a momentary escape from his demons.

He knew, he _did_, that falling prey of more alcohol wasn’t the solution, but maybe, just maybe, this time the pain would go away forever, just like a fever started to break right after it hit the highest temperature.

_Unless it kills you first._

Ignoring the amused voice inside his head, Killian reached out and wrapped his fingers around the bottle.

-/-

Screams woke him, piercing howls of pure pain that would’ve scared the devil himself.

Gasping for air, Killian’s upper body jerked up, back bowing in an almost unnatural way, his weight supported by trembling arms.

Another cry reached his ears, and it was only when he fell back onto the mattress, his straining muscles unable to sustain him anymore, that Killian perceived the pain in his lower back. It took him a bit longer to realize the raw voice he heard was his own.

Burying his face in the tears and sweat stained pillow, Killian had the time to take two short breaths before pain bloomed once again like a flame, growing in intensity until he felt almost like drifting off once more.

This time, he didn’t cry out, muffling the agonizing sound in the pillow.

_This can’t possibly be a nightmare_, he thought breathlessly. No, it was bloody magic for sure, and he’d once more fallen victim of it. Whatever spell or curse he was under was producing its effect way more rapidly than before, concentrating all the pain in the span of a few hours.

Hot tears fell from his eyes and he dug his teeth in the ruined pillow, not trusting himself not to bite his own tongue off while trying not to make a sound. But it was too late, he knew that: if he’d woken up because of his own screams, there was no way in hell the crew hadn’t heard. Fuck, they heard him in all the realms what with how loud he’d been.

Suffocating another scream as well as himself, Killian didn’t hear the door of his cabin open, nor he heard the loud gasp Smee let out at the sight of his Captain.

Or rather, of what was emerging from his Captain’s lower back.

Big, damaged and bloody wings had fought their way to the surface, piercing Killian’s flesh thanks to the sharp recurved claws resting atop where they bent, and now standing proudly in all their ruined glory.

His face as white as a clean sheet, Smee dared fully entering the cabin, closing the door behind his back in fear someone too curious and stupid would venture this way.

Sensing his someone’s presence, Killian’s entire body went rigid, this time not bracing himself for a new wave of pain, but for whatever Smee would do or say.

Deep down, Killian knew the man wasn’t stupid or useless, even though he treated him as such, otherwise he would have never made him his first mate, but the fear of not knowing what would his reaction be was eating him from the inside.

«Captain-»

«A word, Mister Smee,» Killian hissed, «just one and you’ll find your head next to your guts once I cut you open with my hook.»

Smee gulped audibly, nodding in silence before slipping out of the cabin.

Killian’s heart tightened in his chest. Smee didn’t deserve to be treated like that, but he couldn’t control himself: burning deep inside there was a raw need to bring chaos all over the land and sea.

It took him a while, several deep breaths and shaking his head to realize the pain was gone. _Momentarily_, a voice inside his head snarled, clearly amused by his torture but almost pouting over the fact that it needed to wait.

Suddenly, as he flexed his neck to rest his forehead on the damp pillow, Killian felt something itch at the base of his spine. Dread washed over him like a waterfall, and for a moment he stayed still, prone on the bed as this strange sensation spread across his back. Something twitched, almost responding to his movement or… command.

In all his life, Killian had seen and studied what mythical creatures populated the various realms, some of which were only seen as legends, some instead quite common, such as fairies or mermaids. He'd heard of people changing into monsters because they dared touching or stealing some previous object, or being cursed as such by some witch wanting revenge.

_Bloody buggering fuck_.

The dreams and pain, even the vision of his tattoo changing into a more truthful representation of what he'd done, he could deal with, but a curse? Changing into some dark and unknown creature? Nay, he couldn’t do that, he wasn’t strong enough to bear such pain, to live such life, if one could call it so.

But much like he’d endured so much in life, Killian Jones would live through whatever was happening to him: he was a survivor, after all.

He really hoped he still was.

Still wary of whatever pain could soon come, Killian rolled off the bed and stood on unsteady legs. He needed to _see_ what he’d be dealing with, no matter how scary or horrific it was. And rum, he needed more rum. To hell with his previous resolution: he needed it to overcome the pain, at least on a physical level, numbing his body.

Alas, whatever curse he was under seemed to have a sick sense of humour, making him crumble to his knees as a sharp stabbing pain seemed to pierce his body, the image of two white-hot fire pokers stabbing his back right between his shoulder blades flashing before his eyes.

Killian swallowed a scream, biting his lower lip until he drew blood, unable of repressing the pathetic whimper rising from his throat as well.

It was a pain much similar to the one he’d felt mere minutes before - or had it been hours, even? He couldn’t tell anymore - but on a much larger scale. It still felt as if something was trying to claw its way out from beneath his skin.

Gasping as another wave of agonizing pain hit him, Killian could _feel_ the exact moment in which the skin split open under the pressure of the claws, blood bubbling to the surface and coating his skin in thick rivulets as the pierced wings spread out above his curled up figure, almost protecting him. He would’ve laughed at that if he still had breath to spare.

A groan ripped through him as a strange sensation pooled at the base of his spine, right between the lower wings, before exploding like lit up gunpowder.

Killian hissed, pressing his forehead against the cold board beneath him. Every inhale brought in a fresh wave of wood and salt water, not helping him settling his stomach. Years spent on a ship shaped him into the seafaring man he was now, which meant he had faced many bumpy seas and swallowed the need to vomit so many times he’d lost count. Nothing was helping, the pain too strong to be ignored or manageable.

Something sharp and as hard as steel pierced his flesh once again, the tender, already ruined skin screaming in protest as it was lacerated. It was a strange and unpleasant sensation to feel something long exiting from his body, thickening slightly with every inch.

Though he couldn’t see it, nor bring himself to look back, Killian gagged, struggling to breathe in and out and fight the surging need to vomit.

Something swished above him, cutting the air with the same sound a sail made as it unfurled and strained against the strong wind. It felt almost disconnected from his body, and yet, much like the wings, it responded to him.

In a new moment of peace, if the lingering yet more bearable pain could be considered so, Killian rested his head against the deck, the wood a bit warmer, incapable of bringing him a bit of comfort. He sighed, rolling his head on the side, wanting nothing more than to rest a bit, just a minute…

Wrong move.

The moment his head touched the wood, he felt as if a cannonball had hit him right on the side of his face.

Killian couldn’t take it anymore: he screamed in agony.

Acting against the voice inside his mind yelling at him not to touch his face, Killian did exactly that, feeling something hard beneath the skin of his temple, something he just knew was pushing on the left side as well.

The splitting headache seemed to worsen at the pressure, something pointed and sharp piercing not only the thin skin there, but his palm as well.

_Horns_, Killian realized in a moment of clarity.

A series of mythological creatures flashed behind his closed eyelids, ones with characteristics matching his own, none of them fitting in perfectly with what was happening to him.

The horns kept growing, lacerating more skin as they did, curling slightly backwards so they pointed upwards. Unable of keeping silent anymore, Killian sat back on his haunches, screaming his agony to the sky. Blood trailed down the sides of his face, staining his hair and skin.

The upper wings bumped one into the bunk and the other into the desk, knocking something down. Killian gasped in surprise: he could _feel_ everything, even the faintest gusts of air against them. Hadn’t he been so distressed and disgusted by the transformation and the pain, Killian would’ve been amazed.

Everything seemed to stop all of a sudden, just like it had begun.

Nothing moved, and aside from Killian’s heavy breath, silence reigned.

It was the calm after the storm, those moments in which sailors found themselves still fighting and slowly realized the danger was gone and the fire of the battle for their lives igniting their veins dwindled, leaving them exhausted.

_Tomorrow_, Killian thought, looking down at his bloodied hand. _Tomorrow I’ll deal with this, whatever _this_ is_.

But then the wings moved again, and he felt as if he was touching both ceiling and wall and the angle of his desk seemed to dig painfully into the tender skin of one.

Panic coursed through Killian: whatever was connected to him made him feel like he was _seeing_ all around himself, what he had behind his back and next to him. He felt like suffocating, jumping to his feet without thinking of the consequences of unsteady legs and the never-stopping tail cutting through the air.

Unbeknownst to him, it responded to his anxiety, moving uncontrollably and knocking more things over.

At the startling sound of more glass breaking, Killian whirled around, frantically looking around, trying to see in the dim light what could cause so much mayhem. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around his torso, fearing whatever was now attached to his body could hurt him as well. Maybe it was trying to do exactly that.

But it wasn’t only his arms that wrapped around him: the wings did as well, tightening their grip around him as if they wanted to protect him from some kind of danger, a danger they represented.

Gasping for more air as the suffocating hold squeezed him, Killian tried to push away the wings, whipping his head left and right. He stumbled sideways, grunting as his arm strained to push the left wing back. It was too strong for his weak state, but the need to save his life was stronger, so he kept struggling, needing to _live_.

Blindly, Killian stepped backwards. A moment too late he realized his mistake, the tail weaving between his shins, spiralling down the right calf so that, at his next step, he fell forward, his already aching head hitting the wooden wall. The impact made him cry out, the sound fading as his body collapsed onto the bed.

As soon as his mind realized where he was, as if that was his safest place on earth and sea, the trembling stopped, and he fell forward, grunting in pain as the tender yet hard horns hit the pillow, and drifted further into the darkness.

Killian could swear he heard a distant, amused giggle.

-/-

Killian’s eyes flew open, burning intensely as if he’d rubbed his eyes with fingers coated with the juices of the spiciest of all the agrabahian peppers.

Something was wrong, it was too hot and his skin was sweatier than usual and the colours weren’t right, not for a night, nor for the middle of the day, but he couldn’t quite grasp what it was.

There was pain once again, but it was dull, this time, making him almost numb to it, as if he was so used to it that it didn’t even affect him anymore.

His eyes rolled back in his head, but the darkness didn’t last long, morphing into the scene that haunted him every night.

Every particular was the same, the smell of the sea, the way the breeze ruffled his hair, the anguish at the sight of Milah’s body falling to the ground while he was tied to the mast, the feeling of her pulsing heart cradled in the palm of his hand, the sensation of the dust he’d turned the organ into as he crushed it slipping through his fingers as life abandoned the woman.

Another night, another nightmare, another scream in the dead of the night.

-/-

The sound of seagulls bickering for a bite of fresh fish seeped through the haze of his sleep, bringing him back to reality.

_The men must’ve caught quite the haul_.

Rolling off the bed, Killian almost fell forward, stumbling a little before locking his knees and standing straight.

Strangely enough, he felt, dare he say, even well rested, a strange sensation after weeks in which nightmares had haunted him to the point he didn’t know what was real and what was not.

He yawned, the movement causing him to feel the soreness in his jaw. A frown marred his face: it felt as if he’d chewed on a thick and hard piece of salted pork for hours. Instinctively, his hand went to scratch his jaw as he made his way toward the screen behind which he kept his copper bathtub, a treasure he’d plundered from some chubby nobleman, a luxury in his line of… _work_.

His fingers brushed two sharp protuberances just half a second before he hit his head against the beam.

Black spots filled his vision for a few moments, disorienting him. His hand shot up to grab his head, almost cradling it as pain bloomed, awakening his senses. The pain was dull, nothing compared to what he knew he’d endured the last time he was awake, but it persisted, carrying memories back to his mind.

Panic sparked inside him, and he stepped forward, only to be stopped by his head hitting the beam once again. Emitting a growl that could only be deemed as inhuman, Killian bent his head slightly, only to hiss in pain when the beam seemed to hit him anyway, yet not on his head, it was more something pointy scratching the wood.

Once he stepped behind the screen a bit too forcefully, Killian’s eyes flew to the other mirror he kept in his cabin, another treasure, one he didn’t care much about now that he saw the monster he’d become.

Hot angry tears filled his eyes and the tremors threatening to overcome him increased with every passing second, the more he looked at his reflection the more wild with rage he became.

He was undoubtedly taller, his skin more tanned than usual, something he knew, in the back of his mind, he’d already realized before yet couldn’t remember at first, just like he couldn’t immediately recall the dark and pointy horns coming out from his temples. But that wasn’t the scariest and worst part, nay: black, pierced wings stood tall behind him, their skeleton a deep shade of burgundy, as if blood had stained them and the bones had absorbed the colour, making them appear even more fearsome; where they bent, sharp claws seemed to wink at him as the morning light washed over them.

But the wings weren’t the only appendages he’d woken up with: another pair of wings sat lower on his back, a smaller version of the ones towering behind him, and right between them, at the base of his spine, a tail jutted out, black as ink and long, reminding him of a snake, thinning just before flaring out in the shape of an arrowhead.

His breath caught in his throat as his eyes wandered down his body, seeing dark handprints on his skin, handprints that didn’t match his right hand.

Suddenly terrified, Killian began to twitch, fear besting him as a smashing sound filled his ears along with a roar that couldn’t belong to a human being, only a monster could be the source of such a horrible sound. Through his blurry vision, he saw the tail snatch back from the mirror frame, the last pieces falling on the ground.

Killian fell forward, his knees hitting the hard wood beneath him, but he merely flinched as the painful sensation added to the agony he already felt, both physical and mental.

Glass rained all around him, some shards standing upright as they dug into the floor. One got stuck right between Killian’s splayed fingers, his eyes focused on the way it did look bigger and then on his rings: gone were the silver and red colours, leaving black in their wake instead.

Seething, Killian snatched forcefully the shard out of the wood, ignoring the way it cut his skin, and turned it so he could see his reflection better.

Oh, how he wished he hadn’t.

Gone were his beautiful forget-me-not eyes, now a slightly darker shade of blue, the pupils no more two circles but snake-like slits surrounded by a faint red halo, invisible hadn’t he kept the mirror so close.

His hair and beard were undoubtedly longer, darker, even, but what caught his eyes as he turned his head around were the two dark scales sticking out from his jaw. Shock coursed through him and his eyes travelled upwards to his ears, now more pointed and decorated with a black claw as well instead of the earring he had just the day before.

Disgusted, he gritted his teeth, only to notice how his canines were sharper, longer, resembling those of a wild beast.

The last straw, however, was when he caught sight out of the corner of his eye of his left hand. Gone was the stump, or rather, it was still there, but his arm didn’t end at his wrist anymore, the skin of his forearm darkening until it became black as coal as it stretched over his left hand.

No matter how scared he was, Killian couldn’t help but flexing his fingers, twisting his wrist in search of some sort of difference but he couldn’t find any: that was his hand, and it scared him even more than the wings and tail and the bloody horns.

Warm blood trickled down his right palm, fingers curling tightly around the shard to the point it dug painfully into his skin, splitting it open. Dark rivulets travelled down his forearm until gravity claimed the droplets which fell onto the wood and shattered glass, making it look like rubies or blood diamonds.

Forcing himself to let go of it, Killian let the broken shard fall to the ground, the sudden urge to escape surging like a roaring flame inside him. He got to his feet, ignoring the tiny pieces of glass digging into the soles, not even hissing in pain at the sensation; if anything, he rushed out of the confines of the meticulously decorated screen, bowing instinctively to prevent himself from hitting his head once again. Panting, he whirled around in search of a hiding place, a safe harbour of sorts, eyes wide in panic.

He felt as if he was ten once again, when he used to wake up because of nightmares following his father leaving him and Liam and he didn’t know the new ship he was on, he didn’t have a place where to hide or a father to call out to.

_Liam_, he thought, realizing in horror that his feet had brought him to the same corner in which he’d curled up with his brother’s body pressed against his chest as he tried to loosen his collar to let him breathe, to shake him awake, all in vain.

Sobbing at the dark memory, Killian crumbled to the ground in the same spot, feeling more lost than ever without a brother to be his guiding star, to tell him that everything would be alright.

He wrapped his arms around himself, trying, _forcing_ himself to remember how Liam’s embrace felt like, how it made him feel home.

Slowly, the wings curled up around him, wrapping him in their own embrace. Killian didn’t fight them, this time, too weak and wrecked to even move a muscle, letting them create a barrier around him and protect him from the cruel world outside.

-/-

The tearing sound of good linen made him cringe.

Sure enough, when he looked at it, the shirt was torn at his shoulders.

Killian dropped his head, sighing in defeat. That was the third one he’d ruined.

He should’ve known better, he _had_ seen how taller and wider he’d become, but maybe, just _maybe_, with the wings folding back inside him - a concept that, if he thought about a bit too long, disgusted him - all the other changes would disappear as well.

Apparently, only the wings could retreat under his flesh, which was what had jolted him awake. For a moment, Killian had thought everything was just a bad dream, until the pointed tip of the tail poked in him the thigh, as if in warning, reminding him of all he went through in the past few weeks.

Just as he balled up the shirt with his hands - bloody hell, he’d never thought he would’ve looked at his left hand once again - a knock sounded in the room.

Immediately, Killian knew it was Smee, only his first mate dared to disturb him. Breathing through his nose, Killian called to let him in, a plan forming in his mind. He needed new clothes, but more than that, he needed to get out, to take back the reins of his life and, most of all, of his men. If they started to doubt him, they’d be calling for a mutiny in a matter of days, no matter how loyal they’d always been to him after Liam’s death.

«Captain?» Smee tried, sticking only his head in. He clearly sighed in relief when he saw the wings were nowhere to be seen, only to blanch when he saw the other changes in his captain.

«Come in, Smee.»

Killian crossed his arms over his chest, putting on a brave face even if, deep inside, he was shaking in fear. He knew what he needed to do, he needed to pour that fear out, instill it on his men so he could control them without letting them know he felt the same.

«Aye, Captain.

Once Smee closed the door behind himself, staying close to it so to have a good chance at escaping had Killian decided to kill him for knowing his secret, Killian lifted his chin. It was strange, since he was now even more taller than Smee, but it was a movement he couldn’t help, too rooted deep inside him and his memory, a gesture Liam used to do.

«We are still on route for Arendelle, aren’t we?» His tone was hard, firm, not allowing any questioning from the man: in no way he had to let doubt seep into his mind or anyone else’s. His status as Captain couldn’t be put at risk by this curse.

Smee nodded.

«Good,» Killian nodded his head, narrowing his eyes. The sight made Smee shiver, Killian could tell, and he probably would’ve, too, had he been the one to look into such monstrous eyes. «As you’ve clearly realized, there have been some… changes, let’s call them that, in my appearance. Alas, all my clothes are a tad too tight, and I surely can’t show myself in public like this, I do have a reputation to uphold. Of course, I could just ignore my crew’s feelings, but that wouldn’t make me a good captain. Therefore, Mister Smee, I assign you with a task.»

«Anything, Captain,» Smee hurried to reassure him.

Killian was glad he’d not been questioned about his motives: had Smee inquired, perhaps the fear of showing himself in public would’ve overcome him. Until he was sure he could control his wings and keep them hidden from the crew, Killian couldn’t take such a risk.

«I’ll need you to provide me with a new wardrobe, one more… _fitting_. Shouldn’t be much of a trouble, but do your best not to choose anything I wouldn’t.»

The order was received with a serious nod. Killian was pleased: he may treat him like scum, but the man was smart enough not to question him and, even better, anticipate his needs.

Once Smee left, Killian felt his shoulders sag. He felt as if he were Atlas and the weight of the world had suddenly been lifted off his shoulders.

_If only_.

Needing to focus on something else than pain and terror, Killian took a deep breath, looking then down at his body.

Leather was a good material, not suffocating at all even when it seemed to adhere to the skin like a soaked shirt. What peculiarity Killian had come to appreciate even more in the past few hours since he'd woken up, was how it stretched and adjusted to his new build without tearing or being too uncomfortable.

A snort, sounding more predatory and sinister than it should be, escaped him at the thought that it was probably the only good thing amidst the hell his life had turned into.

Turning around, his eyes caught sight of the black leather long coat draped over the back of his tall chair. Killian tilted his head, wondering.

Clenching his jaw - a gesture quite bothersome now that his teeth were sharper and his jaw was sore still - Killian strode to the chair, carefully lifting the coat and twisting it in a circle around himself to wear it.

His arms slipped easily into the sleeves, perhaps sitting a bit too tight around his biceps if he flexed them, but comfortable enough around his shoulders and torso. It wasn't a perfect fit, but it would surely do.

Breathing a sigh of relief he didn't know he was holding, Killian rolled his shoulders a few time, only to stop his movements the moment he felt something hard and pointy scratch uncomfortably his skin from beneath.

He fought his impulse to bend over and vomit at the sensation, doing his best to ignore the flaring pain.

_No, no, not again, not now, please!_

But his prayers went unanswered, the sickening feeling of the wings piercing his flesh and the appalling sound of the claws tearing the leather had him sob in despair, yanking at his hair.

Gone was what little progress he'd accomplished and back was the pain, the fear and the knowledge that he was human no more.

Only hell knew if he would ever be one again.

-/-

In retrospective, Killian would recognize Smee's bravery.

Not only he’d dared entering his cabin without waiting for a response, not only he’d brought food for him when he’d not been ordered to, but he was also trying to, well, to comfort Killian.

A twinge of sorrow pierced his heart: it had been too long since someone had cared about him that way, and what was worse, once he would’ve been grateful, now, instead, he was spiteful, controlling his sobs long enough to hiss at him to leave him alone.

Grateful as he was for the darkness hiding him and his tear-stained cheeks, Killian couldn’t help but feeling horrible for the way he was treating Smee: even when he made snarky comments about him, Killian still respected him, and many times he’d cringed as he spoke such harsh words aloud. Besides, Killian had an advantage given his newfound ability to see even when, all around him, darkness reigned.

Smee’s grief-stricken face was a fresh wound to his heart, one he would never admit was there yet one he would feel every time he faced or thought about the man.

«If you wish to be alone, Captain, then I’ll leave,» his first mate said, standing by the door, «but I hope you know the men are worried about you. If there’s a cure for this, they will help you find it, come hell or high water. They are loyal to you, and no amount of dark magic will make them change their mind.»

The truth oozing from Smee’s words startled Killian, so much that he almost didn’t hear the door opening and closing behind the man.

«Thank you, Smee,» Killian muttered to no one, the darkness catching his words as he curled up even more in that angle where his youth had died, the only place where he could still feel human.

-/-

There was little he could do: though the nightmares were momentarily gone - and oh, he just knew they would come back - he still couldn’t sleep.

There was no way he could lie down on his back with the wings out, and even rolling onto his stomach was useless.

Killian roared in frustration. He just wanted his bloody freedom, his _life_ back. He didn’t want to be a slave anymore, not to a human, and definitely not to magic.

Killian looked at his reflection, hating every inch of the changes this curse had brought upon him. Curling his fingers tightly around the hilt of his cutlass, Killian drew in a shaky breath, knowing what he was about to do would bring him more pain.

A snort escaped him: he'd not succumbed to the pain before, during the transition, now he surely would not as well.

Still, it didn't mean he couldn't fear the pain.

Taking a deep breath, Killian raised the weapon above his head, pulling his arm back behind himself, twisting his wrist so the blade touched the point where the wing had cut through the leather. Doing what he was about to do with the coat still on was uncomfortable, but there was no other way, unless he wanted to destroy the garment.

He closed his eyes, praying the gods one last time, raised the cutlass just enough, and brought it down with much more force than was needed.

The scream which rung in his ears was so bloodcurdling that, for a moment, he believed he’d even woken up the kraken from its slumber.

But that thought escaped as soon as the pain clouded his other senses, so intense he felt his head swim and his eyes roll skywards.

He didn’t faint, but he fell forward, hitting his knees on the floor with a sickening thump, yet not as nauseous as the smell of his own blood filling his nostrils or the sensation of lightness as the wing fell next to him.

Tears glistened down his cheeks, creating dark spots on the wood where they mixed with his blood.

_One down_, Killian thought, still panting. He couldn’t just stop now, not when adrenaline coursed through his veins and numbed the pain. _If you’re going through hell, keep going_.

After taking a moment to collect himself, Killian brought his blood-stained cutlass in front of him, not focusing on the dark blood coating the blade.

Dark fingers grabbed the cutlass, which trembled slightly as he reached up once more with his left arm. His teeth clenched so tightly he feared they could disintegrate in his mouth, Killian repeated the gesture, bringing the sword down a tad more weakly but precisely, the blade cutting through the wing almost with ease, the bone snapping under its force.

Rolling his shoulders, Killian felt lighter, and though the sensation should’ve brought him happiness, all he could feel was disgust and a strange pang of loss. Shaking his head, he let the cutlass fall on the deck with a thump before rising up on trembling knees.

It wasn’t done, he still had the smaller wings to take care of, but as he turned, his hatred for everything that reminded him he was human no more transformed into fury, channeling the pain and turning it into a mighty need to destroy them, burning them until all was left was ash.

Nostrils flaring, Killian almost didn’t feel the pain when he slashed the lower wings, no matter how sensitive the skin there was, his focus entirely on the two staining the wood at his feet, not writhing at all yet appearing like animals gasping for air as they exhaled their last breath.

With a roar, Killian brought the cutlass down onto the large wings, stabbing them, the impact reverberating through the sword and up his arm, shaking him.

Still looking down at the wings without a hint of remorse, Killian shrugged the coat off, finally free of a weight he didn’t want.

Ignoring the way his bare feet left bloodied imprints in their wake, Killian headed towards his bunk and collapsed on the mattress. Rolling on his back and ignoring the throbbing pain or the way the sheets started to absorb his blood. He didn’t care about it all, he only wanted to be at peace.

Unfortunately, there’s no rest for the wicked.

Almost unsurprisingly, it was pain that woke him up, causing him to let out an inhuman wail.

_No_, Killian thought in terror, all the hope he’d had that the wings would just stay detached from his body gone in an instant as he bolted to sit upright. How fool of him to think that, to believe that such a curse wouldn’t manifest itself over and over to torment him until he drew his last breath.

The wings pierced his skin again, his back a map of encrusted and hot, fresh blood he could almost taste in his mouth.

Once free, the wings seemed to sigh in relief, stretching high above his bent, shaking form.

Tears coated the palms he pressed onto his face, and Killian knew that, no matter what, he couldn’t let the darkness win: he would let his anger out and search for a cure, he would find a way.

But for tonight, just for tonight, he would weep.

-/-

A loud crash echoed in the cabin, preceded by a furious roar.

Above deck, the members of the crew barely flinched, used by now to their Captain’s anger, so much that even those sleeping after a long shift were barely upset by it.

A month had passed since the wings had grown back after he’d gone through the pain of cutting them off in the first place, and though he hadn’t showed up on deck not even in the dead of the night - a ship never slept - Killian still was the indisputable Captain.

During this month, pain and shame for himself had left space to anger and determination, never disappearing completely, but there was a fire inside of him that pushed him to seek answers he dreaded but needed to hear.

The only man he could really rely on was Smee, who seemed strangely happy to help, and day after day he seemed more at ease in his presence, no matter how horrible Killian might appear.

It was his first mate, in fact, who asked where he could find someone to inquire them about magic, always in a very subtle way. A storm had pushed them off course and, after the damages sustained because of it, Killian had been forced to give the order: they had to go reach the Leviathan Shoals. They all remembered what had happened there, when the Leviathan had attacked them and the ghost of their former Captain had saved them, and even though the monster was gone, the magic wasn’t.

This time, however, they’d managed to sail away unscathed after all the repairs had been terminated, reaching the Southern Islands instead.

From there, Killian had decided to sail back towards the Enchanted Forest, pondering, wondering who could help him.

_If you can be helped_.

The last book about witchcraft acquired in the Southern Islands that he’d just finished studying contained nothing about curses transforming mere mortals in inhuman creatures.

Nothing, not even a mention of wings or tails or horns like his.

Taking a swig from his flask, Killian studied the glinting sea out of the cabin’s windows, the moon casting a silver shadow on everything it touched.

As his gaze got swallowed by the gently rolling waves, Killian felt a tightness in his throat, almost as if he was suffocating but not quite.

A month was a long time to stay holed up in his cabin without any other interaction than the ones with Smee whenever the man came to bring him food and sometimes stayed to talk a bit, always informing on how the crew was faring and what needed to be done, asking for Killian’s advice and ready to follow his every order.

After his wings had made their appearance once again, Killian had accepted he needed to deal with what had happened to him in a rational way, fighting magic with magic just as he’d recognized when all the pain was in his head and only the nightmares haunted him. Therefore, he’d cleaned up the whole cabin, scrubbing the planks until they shone and all the blood had disappeared. The sheets and everything he’d stained had undergone the same treatment until they were spotless. All he’d broken had been replaced or fixed, and whatever he’d destroyed after that, too. There was a streak of anger and need to just annihilate everything that wasn’t him, and yet he found it to be familiar.

Shaking his head, Killian placed the flask on the desk, proceeding to pull up the chair from the floor and retrieving the book he’d thrown to the other side of the cabin.

The sudden gust of air coming through the window ruffled his hair, rearranging the dark strands in a mass atop of his head. The horns didn’t help either, and Killian flinched every time he even just brushed them. The wings, of course were the worst aspect of it, especially because he _felt_ everything they accidentally touched, sending shivers down his spine.

Jaw ticking, Killian paced back and forth in the room, glancing from time to time out of the window, the sea calling to him like a siren. It always had, but never so intensely, almost making forget his own name.

Suddenly, the wings stirred behind him, stretching out a bit like he did whenever he woke up or stayed for too long in the same position.

He knew, _felt_ what they wanted, and part of him longed that freedom as well, no matter how scary it seemed. After all, flying was against the human nature.

Killian couldn’t help the snort that left him, the dry, humourless chuckle that tumbled from his lips. _Everything you are right now is against the human nature_, he scolded himself.

And yet, he couldn’t just shake the desire to get out off himself.

_Perhaps just this once_, Killian thought, the wings responding eagerly to his thoughts, probably giddy that the seed of an idea they’d planted had grown into an intention and was about to become reality.

The window was wide enough for him to pass through it without a problem. Or, well, there wouldn’t have been any issue hadn’t he had such a huge… hindrance.

But as soon as he wished the wings to just stay back and close enough so he could slip out of the window, he felt the upper ones move to do just that, resembling two sails cutting the wind instead of straining against it.

Barefoot as he usually was lately, Killian stepped onto the windowsill, not daring to look below himself.

These waters weren’t populated by krakens or sharks, but a dip in the ocean was not what he wanted, especially not when he could risk drowning because of the added weight of the wings.

Taking a deep breath and sending a quiet prayer to his brother to watch over him one more time, Killian flexed the muscles of his back and jumped, hoping he’d not been a fool once again.

Not closing his eyes, Killian braced himself for the impact, for the icy cold he knew would envelope him had he plunged deep into the ocean.

But the cold never came.

In fact, after feeling like dropping, Killian felt himself yanked upwards, his limbs flailing as he tried to grip something when all he could try to grasp was air.

It took him a while to understand how to angle his body just right so he didn’t feel the need to grab something, the wings keeping him, well, _anchored_ in that way he couldn’t quite understand.

As soon as he found himself floating through the air, for the first time in seemingly endless weeks, Killian relaxed. It was nothing like stretching on a bed after a long, tiring day, especially not when there was _no bed at all_, yet the sensation was the same.

Keeping himself close to the surface of the water and letting the tip of the left wing caress the Jolly’s hull, Killian circled the ship several times, not wanting to alert his men on the lookout in the crow’s nest. They wouldn’t understand it was him if he came flying down on deck. Nay, he needed a better strategy, one that would assure him their respect.

Mastering the art of flying was much like learning how to sail: easy until it was only a matter of going straight, left or right, but when faced with an unexpected turn of events, it became quite difficult.

Killian bit his lower lip lightly, he didn’t want his canines to puncture it _again_. Slowly, as if testing the wings, he rolled on his back several feet above the surface of the ocean, wondering if he could in fact manage to just _float_ and look up at the stars. Oh, how he’d missed doing just that, tracing the constellations with an imaginary line.

Daringly, he brought his arms beneath his head as a mock pillow, eyes looking up at the blinking stars. Underneath him, the wings stabilized his form, keeping him right where he was, flapping slightly from time to time to move him forward. How, Killian had no bloody idea, but he was coming to love the sensation of swimming through the air.

He chuckled at his own thoughts, only to startle himself when he realized it was the first time since he’d turned into a monster that he’d laughed in actual delight.

Too shocked to even breathe, Killian nearly screamed when he felt himself suddenly fall, only to be cut off by ice cold water enveloping him as he plunged deep in the sea.

_Bloody buggering hell_, Killian cursed, blinking a few times, a useless gesture since his new-acquired vision allowed him to see clearly even in the dark waters. Holding his breath, he fought against the flow and cold, kicking his legs so to come back to the surface.

What he didn’t thought of were the four wings that propelled him upwards without so much of an effort. Only two beats of his wings and he was breathing again, his entire body flailing as he flew higher and higher, tiny droplets of water raining down back to the sea.

In an effort to regain his composure, Killian whipped his head around, searching for the lights of the Jolly, knowing he couldn’t just be much far. Relief coursed through his soaked body, followed by a shiver.

_Enough for tonight_, he told himself, bending forward and heading back towards the ship, his body just mere inches from where the calm waves reached their highest peak.

Once he’d reached the open window of his cabin undisturbed, Killian quietly slipped inside, reaching into the already open chest at the feet of his bunk for a linen towel. Carefully, Killian tended to his wet skin and hair, trying not to scrub to hard where the flesh was open and raw to let the wings and tail through, and applying careful pressure to his head right where the horns were.

In the darkness, Killian chuckled again.

-/-

It was a strange sensation, to feel normal again after a long time. Well, of course, not as normal as any other human being, but at least he wasn’t feeling as if he was a monster anymore - or rather, long enough to see things a bit more clearly through the fog of fear and anger - and for him, that was progress.

That night, for the first time in a long time, Killian had finally been able to sleep well. He knew, oh did he, that it wouldn’t last for long, but unlike before, he wasn’t counting down the minutes before a new wave of pain or panic hit. No, now he was savouring every moment of clarity, planning his every next move like the strategist he always had been. It had been his quick mind that had granted him the rank of Lieutenant so soon, never hidden in his brother’s shadows. Quite the opposite, in fact: they’d both shone for their intelligence, Liam earning the rank of Captain only because of his age - and, admittedly, because of several missions he’d accomplished almost on his own when Killian was yet to be under his command. Those were great times.

Sighing at the bittersweet memory of his brother, Killian took a last, long look at the man in the mirror, the black sheet he’d thrown over his shoulder and had spent the first hours of the morning stitching it so it wouldn’t fall apart. The back was open to allow the four wings and the tail to be free; it didn’t matter if everyone could see them or his suspenders, they could stare if they wanted, he did not care anymore.

But then, as he adjusted the limp collar the sheet made around his neck, Killian’s eyes fell on a circular burnt scar that he’d never noticed, something that made him turn as white as snow.

There, right above his frantically beating heart, was a scar that had never existed before. It wasn’t just any scar, nay, it was a circle with a “R” almost carved into his skin.

Killian gulped, feeling bile rising to his throat.

_No_, he screamed in his mind, shaking from head to toe as he instinctively brought his hand up, ready to claw at the mark, because that was what it was: a mark, a sign that he belonged to that bloody demon.

Fury shot through him, setting him on fire. His sharp nails dug into the skin of his chest, ready to tear the flesh so he wouldn’t have to see it again, so he wouldn’t feel like he was someone’s slave.

_Don’t_.

The voice in his mind, one he’d dreamt of many times and wished could answer him whenever he prayed for an advice, stopped him short of ruining more of his body and mind at the same time.

Liam’s order stopped him right as tiny drops of blood bubbled to the surface, coating his fingertips. His brother’s voice seeped through the fog clouding his mind and judgement, making him see red at the thought of being someone’s property.

Years had passed, but the feeling remained. It was why Killian had always fought for his freedom, and the thought that not only he was prey of the pain and cursed to live the rest of his life as a demon, but that he belonged to someone, too, was too much for him to bear.

Liam - or what he portrayed as Liam, maybe his own conscience, even - was right.

If he had to fight to be free, he would do so without bending to what clearly was his tormentor's intention. Playing that game of cat and mouse would only result in his own demise, which was the last thing that he wanted.

Nay, he wanted, no, what he truly desired was to hunt down Rumplestiltskin and make him pay for what he'd done to him.

A life for a life, that was what it would be.

With that resolution, Killian looked at his reflection in the mirror, his now snake-like eyes showing nothing else than peaceful fury. The corner of his mouth ticked upwards in a devilishly grin.

_Soon, demon, soon you shall meet your end_.

With that last promise to himself, Killian marched out of his cabin, wings standing proudly at his back and tail slashing the air behind him, tall and proud as a horned king.

It was time to face his men and get his life back and defeat the demons haunting him, whether material or just inhabiting his mind.

It was time for Killian to become the man he really wanted to be: a free man.


End file.
